


Bright and Beautiful

by MirandaShepard_93



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Body Worship, But tough, Charles is a soft boi, Charles likes curves, F/M, Size Difference, Size Kink, Tall Reader, body love, my first reader insert, plus size reader, you cannot convince me otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22816240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirandaShepard_93/pseuds/MirandaShepard_93
Relationships: Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption) & Reader, Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption)/Reader, Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption)/You
Comments: 10
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

You spin in front of the mirror, screwing up your face; you’re supposed to wear this…  _ thing _ , this scrap of material, to help Arthur and the boys with a heist on a riverboat. But all you can think about is how you’re going to spill over the sides of it. About how much of you there is in comparison to the average saloon girl. 

“Oh  _ fuck _ this,” you snarl and throw it into the corner of your tent, stinging tears welling up,

“Y/N, are you alright?” Charles’ voice is smooth as silk; you love his voice, usually, but right now it’s the last thing you want to hear.   
“Ye- yeah,” you try to sound calm, but you hear him take two steps towards your tent, 

“Can I… can I come in?”

“I... sure, Charles,” you say with a sigh, and keep your back turned as the flap pulls back,    
“Oh… I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that you were…”  _ In your underwear _ , he doesn’t say the rest, perhaps because he’s polite, perhaps because he’s seen the tears on your face in the mirror. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

He grumbles and shakes his head,    
“Come on, Y/N, don’t pull that with me. I know you well enough to know that something is wrong.” Of course, he’s right. He was the first of the men to really make you feel at home; the first to speak to you like you mattered. Even Karen was surprised, but all the women agreed he was a good man, despite his taciturn manner. 

“I… I’m too… the costume is too small.” You say,    
“They got the wrong size?” He’s blushing, you can see how the skin on his cheeks has flushed in the dim lamplight as he reaches for the costume, 

“No,” you say, “it fits.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m too big, Charles,” you snap, crossing your arms as a tear seeps out, “I’m going to look like a whale compared to the other girls and…” you throw your hands up and shake your head, then realise that he’s staring at you intently, “it doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with it.

“Y/N,” he says it softly as if approaching a skittish horse, “you’re beautiful… you do know that?”

  
  


The gentle warmth in his voice takes your breath away, but the fire in his eyes is what sends electricity through your body, 

“I…” you shake your head and shrug, 

“You are,” he says it more firmly, looking over his shoulder before stepping forward, hand almost reaching for you, clenching and relaxing at his side when he pulls it back. 

“I’m…” you spread your hands, “so big, and tall…”

“You are,” he says, 

“Like a man.”

“No.” Charles shakes his head. “No, not like a man, like a woman.” He says, and steps closer again; as tall as you are, he still looks down at you, “and you are beautiful…” 

“I’m not like the other girls,” you say and look down, but he cups your chin and tilts it up again, 

“No, you’re not,” he says, and smiles that warm, sunny smile that always blinds you in part because of its rarity, but mostly because of the way it changes his face and makes him almost boyish. “And that’s what makes you wonderful.”

“Charles,” you whisper, moving back,”don’t.”

“I… sorry, I didn’t mean to… Nevermind.” And just like that the boy is gone, replaced by the man and all his worries. He seems to shrink, “that was presumptuous of me.” He’s already slipping away, and perhaps that’s what makes you brave; you reach for him,

“Don’t,” you manage to say, gripping his hand in both of yours. You marvel at its size, at the size of him. He and Arthur are perhaps the only men who make you feel dainty… but only Charles makes you feel like this; hot and cold and fizzing. All at once. “Don’t go…” He says nothing, but his eyes are searching,

“Ok.”

“Do you mean it? I mean… really mean it? What you said about me being beautiful?” 

“Of course.” There’s no outpouring, no declarations, just the same, steadfast honesty that made you love him in the first place. And you do love him, you realise, desperately. Whether or not you agree with him, he thinks it’s true. 

“Why?” 

“What?” He frowns, mouth twitching, 

“How can you think that?” You ask, 

“Y/N, how could I not?” He asks and then smiles, a mischievous glint in his eye as if he’s thinking something he shouldn't be, “I probably shouldn’t... it’s not proper,” Charles says, leaning in conspiratorially, 

“What?” You can’t help but be drawn into it, 

“To say that you have the kind of body a mans hands want to follow,” he whispers it, grinning, but there’s a flush to his cheeks that tells you he’s as nervous as you are. 

“Stop,” you find yourself giggling, 

“I mean it,” he says, “I won’t say anything about the other girls, they’re all beautiful, too, but you’re special, Y/N, and I don’t think you understand that.”

“I don’t feel it, Charles,” you whisper, and he sighs, taking a fistful of your hair and pulling you close to press a firm kiss onto your forehead.

“You will, Y/N,” he says, “one day.” 

Then he’s gone, leaving you tingling and breathless. You’re not sure what you expected, but it wasn’t for him to leave you standing, clutching the damned outfit like a starry-eyed girl. You expected more from an outlaw… or perhaps less, but when you dress and walk out into the firelight he’s talking to Dutch, gesticulating in a way that’s not quite like him. Dutch looks over his shoulder at you, and then shrugs, nods and waves his hands as if dismissing him. 

  
  
  


The outfit lying on your bed when you enter your tent the next night, however, is a little more acceptable. There’s more skirt and it’s higher in the front, high enough to actually hold your breasts and give some comfort. You slip it on; it fits, too, but this time you actually feel like you could be one of those butterfly girls on the riverboat. You smile and press your hands to your sides before changing. Dutch is holding court, reading from a book to Molly when you stride over, 

“Mr Van der Linde?” You ask, waiting for him to stop reading. He takes his time, 

“Yes?”

“Thank you, for the new disguise I mean. I feel much more able to work in it.” You say, and Molly raises an eyebrow,

“Oh, you are welcome, Miss Y/L/N, but you really should be thanking Mr Smith. He picked it.” Dutch nods, and then turns back to his book. Charles is sitting under a tree at the edge of the campsite, watching; you know he is because his hands have stopped moving. The arrow in his hand is unfinished, and though his face its turned towards it, you have the feeling that his eyes track you all the way. When you stop before him he looks up; 

“Thank you,” you say, and smile, 

“For what?”

“The new dress, I know you were the one who picked it out for me.” 

“Oh,” Charles says with a small smile, “you’re welcome. Do you like it?”

“I do.”

“I’m glad.” 

It’s the kind of stilted conversations you’ve heard dozens of women have with men that are crazy about them. You’ve had a few yourself, but not in a while. You shuffle from foot to foot, and then point to the arrows, 

“Could you teach me?”

“No,” he grunts, dashing your hopes against the ground, 

“Oh.”

“I have a better idea,” he says and stands, “come on.”

“What?” You ask, stepping back as he stands, looming over you. You wonder if a man that size can help but loom. 

“I want to show you something, come on.” He stalks into the woods, stopping to look over his shoulder, “unless you don’t want-”

“No, no, I do.” You say and take two quick steps into the cool, wet shade of the forest, 

“Alright.” And he whistles on Taima, hopping on before extending his hand to you, helping you up. 

You hold on to him, resisting the urge to press your cheek to his broad back, and let the smell of woodsmoke and whisky and leather wash over you. He smells like home, like safety. Two men pass on the road, and for the first time in your life, it’s not you that they leer at. It’s Charles. You know why; down here Lenny has to move with a partner at all times. Down here, Charles is stared at no matter where he goes, and you can’t help but wonder if that’s why he’s so kind to you and the girls; he knows what it’s like to live under the scrutiny of sleazy, dangerous men. They mutter something as you pass, and you feel their eyes as they turn to stare at your back, 

“You alright?” He asks, feeling the stiffness in your limbs, 

“Yes,” you whisper, “I just… I hate them, Charles, men like that.”

“I know,” he says, “but they’re not worth the energy it costs to do anything about it.” Before you can say anything else he nudges Taima forward through the woods and into swamplands. Then out again, by the time he pulls her to a halt you’re looking at a wide stretch of water, “the Gulf of Mexico,” he says, “it’s part of the ocean… I know you said you’d never seen it,” Charles turns to look at you, “but you have. You just didn’t know it.” He turns to look at you, “the sun’s going to set soon. Do you want to watch it, or will I take you back?”

“Are you not coming back?” You ask, 

“No, I need to do some digging in Saint-Denis,” Charles says, “Dutch wants legitimate earning opportunities.”

“Legitimate?” You ask, “like what? Making baskets?” He laughs, 

“Like bare-knuckle boxing, betting rackets, that kind of thing,” he says, 

“Right.” 

“Hey, he said legitimate, not legal,” Charles laughs, 

“And who’s going to be boxing?” You ask, stomach roiling with something almost like anger, “not Dutch, I assume.”

Charles swivels in the saddle to look at you, 

“No, probably not.” He says and you tut, sliding down from the horse, 

“Y/N?” He calls as you march to the shore and kick off your shoes. “Y/N?” You stick your feet into the ocean and close your eyes, trying to feel that connectedness your mother talked about; the expansiveness she felt in that little Dutch town before she travelled the world for an inglorious death. Charles is standing behind you, you can almost feel the heat on your body, though you know he’s too polite to crowd you. 

“I know…” you start, but your voice cracks with an emotion you didn’t know you had, “I know Mr Van der Linde saved you. He saved me. I suppose he saved all of us, but… I don’t like the way he treats you sometimes.” When you turn to look at him he’s giving you a strange, quizzical look. 

“I’m not sure what you mean, Y/N.” He’s being obtuse, or perhaps just naive, 

“No?”

“No.”

“He treats you like an attack dog,” you snap, “... or a bait dog. Every time someone has to take damage it’s you.”

“Or Arthur.”

“I don’t give a shit about Arthur…” you say and then correct yourself, “and that doesn’t make it any better.”

“I suppose not.” He’s smiling, now, the corners of his eyes creasing. 

“Well, I had better come with you to Saint-Denis, then. Make sure that you don’t get yourself into trouble… there has to be a better way to earn than by letting yourself be beaten senseless.” You press your hands to your hips and then bend to pick up your shoes. 

“Maybe you should, then.” Is all he says before hopping onto Taima and offering his hand. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is SO fluffy it's going to rot some teeth, and I'm not even sorry.

Saint-Denis is everything you imagined it would be; beautiful and busy and dirty. It smells and sounds like life, distilled into its purest form, and no-one stares at either of you here. Those who do turn to stare do so because of the way Charles barges through the crowd, you hurrying behind whispering apologies and platitudes, 

“Charles,” you call breathlessly as he turns into a side street, “slow down, you nearly knocked three people over down there!” He turns, gives you a quizzical look, and then leans down, 

“Y/N, if you waited for a gap in the crowd here, you’d never get anywhere,” he says, 

“Well, I can’t keep up with you,” you say, “people are less inclined to let me through than they are you.” He shrugs, but reaches down and takes your hand, 

“Come on then.” He tugs you along behind him, gently, manoeuvring you with one big, calloused hand until the crowds begin to part and you’re walking down an eerily quiet street. Charles stops and looks around, peering into the window of a saloon, 

“Wait in there,” he says, “where I’m going isn’t any place for a lady.”

“Neither is there,” you say, brows furrowed, “and I’m no lady.”

“Yes, you are.” His smile is warm, eyes crinkled. “The barmaid in there is a good woman, just tell her you’re waiting for me.”

The pang of jealousy is beneath you, you know it, but it still digs at your gut. You nod and enter the smoky saloon, pulling your jacket tighter about you as one of the few patrons turns to look at you, 

“Hello darlin’,” the voice is lilting, cracked with age; the woman behind the bar smiles radiantly, grey hair gleaming in the lamplight, “was that Mr Smith I saw out there with you?”

“Um… yes, he told me to wait in here,” you say, wincing. You sound like a working girl, waiting on a client, but the barmaid just nods and pours a whisky, 

“Right then, you had best sit down.” She pats the bar in front of her and looks you up and down, 

“Are you Y/N, then?” She asks, and your heart jumps, 

“Yes… I am.” 

“I thought so, you know I said to myself when you walked in, Mairi, if that was indeed Mr Smith then that is Y/N,” she says and beams, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“You have?” You look around as if another woman could be hiding behind you, 

“Of course,” Mairi says, “he said you were shy.”

“Who?”

“Mr Smith.”

“I… see, what, what else has he said?” You ask, and her grin becomes sly, 

“Now, now, t’aint my place to tell a drunk mans secrets. Ask him yourself, dove, he likes you, he’d share anything with you, so I imagine the inside of his head isn’t off-limits.” And with that she sashays into the main saloon, leaving you to sip your whisky and wonder. 

  
  


When he comes back, hours later, he smells of smoke and whisky, and there’s blood on his collar. In the gloom of the saloon, his face looks bruised, but you can’t quite tell. 

“Where have you been?” You hiss, “it’s been hours a-”

“We need to go,” Charles says, dropping a dollar onto the counter, “thanks Mairi!”

“What-”

“We need to go, Y/N,” he says firmly and tugs you behind him. As you step into the street a shout makes him swear, “shit, move.” 

You’re a tall woman, but you have to hold your skirt with one hand and pray for balance as he starts to run. He seems taller than ever when running, or perhaps just made up entirely of legs, and you begin to fall behind, 

“Charles, I can’t -” you gasp, “I can’t keep up.” He comes to a dead stop, rumbling before he darts suddenly into an alleyway, closing the gate behind you and hustling you behind some crates. In the darkness, you can hear your own heart, and feel the cold stone against your back even as his body burns against your front. “Cha-”

“Shh.” He presses a hand over your mouth, gently, and shakes his head, shuffling closer as footsteps approach. He must feel how you shake under his hand, how your breaths tremble on the way out. His hand lands gently on your hip and squeezes once as if to say ‘it’s alright’. As if to tell you that nothing bad could happen to you while he’s here. 

“Can you see him?” A voice echoes down the alleyway,

“No.” The second man sighs and the gate creaks open a little, 

“That’s a dead-end, Marv, he ain’t dumb enough to go that way.” The first says, and you wince when the second hisses,

“Damn prairie n-”

“Did you hear that?” 

“What?” 

“Over there -” there’s a silence and the footsteps clatter into the distance. Tears well over and drip over his palm. Charles shushes you again but pulls you into a hug this time, letting you shake and sniffle quietly. 

“Please tell me Dutch didn’t send you to meet them,” you say, fighting back the frustration, 

“No, I ran into trouble with them after the meet.” You want to believe him. You really do. 

“Alright.” 

“You were brave,” he says suddenly, but he doesn’t let you go, 

“No, I wasn’t.” 

“You were,” Charles says, and you know he’s smiling, “you did everything I asked you to, even when you were scared. You didn’t give us away. You did well.” You nod and look at your feet, “Y/N,” he repeats, tilting your chin up, “you did well.” His breath is hot on your face, and in the gentle moonlight, you can see his eyes glinting. He shifts forward, leaning in, blocking the last of the light as his hair falls to tickle your face. You close your eyes and tilt your face up, only to jump when the gate at the end of the alley slams open, 

“No, no wrong way,” a man laughs, clearly drunk, “wrong gate, Gavin, come on.” 

They leave, but the moment has fled; Charles steps back and holds out a hand, 

“We should go,” he says, “we need a place to stay tonight, the roads aren’t safe in the dark.” 

As you make your way back towards the brighter parts of the city, he doesn’t let go of your hand, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles now and then. You step into a hotel, quiet and a little shabby, but clean and respectable looking. Charles drops your hand and approaches the desk as a woman with smooth, brown skin and salt and pepper hair approaches, 

“Yes?”

“We need rooms,” he says,

“Two?”

“Yes,” Charles says, and you bite back a strange mixture of disappointment and relief; he is a gentleman. The woman nods, 

“How many nights?”

“One.” 

She gives him a price that makes you want to wince, but he just nods, and turns to you, 

“Do you want a bath?” 

“Oh… I… yes, please.”

“Sure,” the woman smiles, “you head right on up honey.” She nods then looks at Charles, “I’ll knock your door when it’s ready for you, sir.”

There’s nothing quite like a hot bath, of course, and you soak for longer than you should, only getting out when the water starts to cool. As you’re braiding your hair for the night, you hear Charles’ voice, calling for help. Another pang of jealousy, but you remember the blood on his collar and bit down on the guilt. He could be in pain. He calls again, but there’s no reply so you creep into the hallway there’s no answer. Perhaps the bath girls aren’t available. Perhaps there aren’t any. You knock on the door, 

“Yes,” he sounds exasperated, but when you poke your head around the door, he sits up and blushes, covering himself as he stutters, 

“Y/N? What are you doing?”

“I heard you calling for help,” you say, 

“I meant-”

“I know, but I don’t think there is anyone else.” You bite your lip and he nods, 

“That’s alright then, I’ll manage.”

“Charles,” you laugh, “if you can take help from a bath girl, you can take it from me.”

“You’re not-”

“What?” You ask, “I’m not what?”

“You’re not a bath girl, Y/N.” He says, “you’re not here to wash my back.”

“Well I am now, and I won’t hear otherwise,” you say, “I can call you Mr Smith if it makes you feel better?” 

“What? No!”

You shut the door firmly and perch on the side of the tub, 

“Lean forward, then.”

“Y/N.” Charles seems to curl in on himself, if you didn’t know better you’d say he was blushing. You sigh, 

“I’m only trying to help, Charles, but if you really find it objectionable I’ll go.”

“It’s not that,” he says, “I just…”

“I know, you don’t like me doing things for you,” you say, “you like to pretend you’re made of stone, well you’re not. I am your friend, Charles, I won’t let you struggle in pain because you’re too damn proud to let me wash the back of your neck.” He sighs again, and then laughs, 

“You’re right… thank you.” He rubs his face and leans forward, letting you take the washcloth to the scarred skin on his back. The dirt that runs down his back with the water makes your brows raise, 

“Been a while since you had a bath, Charles? Sorry, Mr Smith?” He laughs, 

“Been a while since I had someone wash my back,” he says, “but a while since I washed in anything but a river. Same for you, no doubt?”

“Absolutely not. I went into Valentine for a bath once a week, and I do the same in Rhodes,” you say, “and I’m a little worried you don’t.” He laughs again, a deep, belly laugh that makes the water in the tub shake as he looks up at you, 

“Micah and Bill don’t even wash in the river once a week, Y/N.”

“You’re better than them,” you say and swat his shoulder with the cloth.

“Mm, maybe.”

“Definitely.” You start to scrub his hair, working the soap into the ends before you start to massage his scalp. Charles hums and slowly leans back, making sure the bubbles keep him covered. You smile as he starts to relax and let your eyes wander to his chest. The scars there can’t hide beneath the smattering of black hair. You frown and shake your head, 

“How did you end up with so many injuries, Charles?” You ask, but he only takes your hand and kisses it in reply, 

“Life is hard.” Is his response, but you’re frozen by the feel of his lips, and when his eyes open he seems to remember himself. You’re already leaning down, however, determined not to let this moment pass. You blush when you kiss him; you’re not used to making the first move, but he seems happy if the low rumbling sound he makes is anything to go by. His nose brushes your chin, the strange way you’ve come together making for an awkward angle. A thick, wet arm loops around your waist and urges you to move along the rim, righting the balance so you can look him in the eye. 

“Is this ok?” He asks, 

“Of course,” you say and rest your hand on his cheek, sliding it down onto his neck, shoulder, and finally his chest, “this is perfect.”

It’s a blur, the way you make it to your room. He hesitates in the doorway until you pull him in. He seems to leave his reservations at the door, scooping you up in one smooth movement before carrying you to the bed. You feel small as he looms over you but safe; Charles presses his face to your neck and kisses the skin there clumsily as if he can’t quite gather his thoughts. He pushes the dress up, and then stops, lifting you to struggle with the back, 

“It laces in the front,” you whisper, giggling as he growls in exasperation, unlacing it as quickly as he can. When he starts to pull it over your head, however, the dread is back; you freeze. What if he doesn’t like you? 

“Y/N?” Charles has stopped, his eyes are soft, 

“Can you turn the lamp off?” You ask, and he nods, 

“Sure… Can I ask why?” He stands and turns to the first lamp, extinguishing it. When you don’t answer he stops in front of the second, “Y/N? You do know I think you’re beautiful?” You nod, “I want to see you.”

“I... “

“But I’ll turn them all off if you like.” His hand hovers, 

“You… could leave one on,” you say, “if you wanted.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” 

You’re not sure, but you can see the warmth in his eyes, the need. You know he won’t be cruel to you, he isn’t capable. The smile is small and shy, but it makes you blush and turn your face to the pillow as he undresses you. When your skin is tingling in the cool air, you gather up the courage to peek up at him. He’s smiling, of course, and staring, as if waiting for you to look. When you do his eyes meet yours and he grins, running a hand from your ribs to your hips, 

“Beautiful.” Is all he says before pulling you away from the pillows you had been hiding under, hands firm on your hips. It’s almost shameful, the feel of his trousers against your bare rear when he slots himself between your legs, the feeling of being so small under him. 

Charles murmurs something you can’t quite catch in your ear and smiles, brushing your hair away from your face as he pushes his hand between your legs. There are no fireworks, life isn’t a romance novel after all, but after a few fumbles, he finds a spot that feels good and presses the advantage. It’s awkward and clumsy and sweet, the way you muddle through the firsts together, and he takes every set back, every bump of teeth and misplaced limb, with a kind of cheerful breathlessness that makes you want to melt. You’ve never laughed in moments like these before, but it feels right to do so now. He squeezes your hip as you find a rhythm that works; he’s big, making you wince and gasp at first, but you take it slowly and end up shaking under the patient, gentle way he teases and stretches you. It’s the strangest feeling, so much power and strength distilled into the gentlest touch, but it makes you smile even as you gasp and moan. 

This is what it’s supposed to be like, you realise. This is how love should feel; bright and beautiful and gentle as summer rain. 

When he pulls away, shaking and gasping, you kiss his forehead and let him rest on your chest, the sweat on his brow making your skin slick.

“Was that ok?” He asks, making you realise how much alike you are; you can hear the nerves, the fear in his voice, 

“Perfect,” you say and kiss his hair, letting the smell of lemon and thyme soap wash over you. “It was perfect.”


End file.
